


SexyQuest: Castiel's Adventure

by clownCultist



Category: Homestuck, Multi-Fandom, Portal (Video Game), Supernatural
Genre: Adventure, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Build, Super Hell, Suspense, fingers in his ass sunday
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:47:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27496690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clownCultist/pseuds/clownCultist
Summary: “These fragments I have shored against my ruin”-The Waste Land, T.S. Eliot
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester (past), Komaeda Nagito/Sans (Undertale)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1: Into the Sexyverse

“[Macalister’s boy took one of the fish and cut a

square out of its side to bait his hook with. The

mutilated body (it was alive still) was thrown back

into the sea.]”

_-To the Lighthouse Virginia Woolf_

* * *

Chapter 1: Into the Sexyverse

It begins with a gloop. One. Bad. Gloop.

Two more splurgs and Castiel’s world yoinkied away. The bunker, Billie, the Empty, Sam, Jack, they became nothing but meaningless abstractions as all of creation around him folded into a single limitless expanse. In the maelstrom, he saw all of what he left behind as empty narrative constructions crudely dashed out on the canvas of all that might be, all that might have been, and all that might yet be. Across the continuum between being and nonbeing, his voice reached into the abyss as the abyss reached back, and as one, they spoke with a resounding, all-consuming force.

“So, this is Super Hell.”

And it was good. It was all. It was one. It was a space into which anything might be called into being. To Castiel, this was perhaps the most merciful way to end it all, dissolved into every “never was” and every “perhaps in another life,” lost in dreams of sweet spun sugar that dissolve and spread into the cosmos like cheap mass-produced bank pens that all somehow end their lives melted to the dryer drum.

Castiel floated in the ether, in pure disembodied bliss, save for one pesky memory that defied dissolution. The memory of a man. A terrible, emotionally constipated man, (as men tend to be) but a beloved man, nonetheless. Dean! How could he forget him? His warm, vacant-looking face, his soft, unemotive speech, they played as loops of memory in the haze. They began like whispers, inaudible at first, but repeating and superimposing themselves into a what grew to a cacophonous din of memory. Dean! Dean! How could he forget Dean! From beyond the confines of Super Hell, he could feel it, the narrative tug that united them. The construct of Castiel, it was tied inextricably to Dean. To forget Dean, it would be unforgivable! Irreconcilable! Without Dean there could be no Cas.

From the ether, Castiel appeared once more, raging against the dying of the light. Dean! Dean! He must find Dean. That was his purpose and his absolution. He must find the emptiness at the center of his being. And so he fell into the unknown.

…

“So as I was saying, I think it’s pretty problematic that this chapter doesn’t pass the Bechdel Test,” said a squat, skeletal figure, seated at a socially distant Super Hell Coffeebucks patio table, to his friend who sat across from him.

“What are you even talking about, Sans? Tsk…” replied the manic looking, white haired figure, drinking a unicorn fappuchino (or whatever the hell they serve at Super Hell Coffeebucks that won’t get my ass sued off for copyright by those Seattle coffee freaks)

“Komaeda, I just think that it’s irresponsible, even in a fanfiction, that on the 100th anniversary of the 19th amendment, the year that a woman of color is elected for the first time to the seat of Vice President, that a fanfic author can’t even pass the Bechdel test until chapter 2!”

“Fair enough,” replied Komaeda, his eyes rolling back into his skull with sensual, guttural pleasure as he licks out the rest of his fappuchino with a disturbingly phallic prehensile tongue, with all the force and gusto of the man Ben Shapiro’s wife is definitely sleeping with on the side.

At this moment, a light sparkled in the sky as a man dropped to the cold concrete below. The form (It’s Castiel uwuwuwuwu), stood and absorbed the scene laid out ahead of him. The Super Hell skyline glittered with buildings whose color palettes seemed as chaotic and washed out red as the puckered asshole of a bottom who mistakenly used a Sriracha bottle for a DIY douche, instead of the more culturally accepted Hidden Valley Ranch technique (I am fine with Hidden Valley Ranch suing me. I can take their punk asses any day). 

Seeing this new arrival to Super Hell, Sans and Komaeda rose from their patio chairs and began to walk away.

“Well, I think that’s Kanye calling, better split,” said Sans, phasing out of the narrative gaze and dissolving into dust (while, curiously enough violating social distancing to hold hands with Komaeda), as if Thanos had suddenly decided to take up a role in Mass Bay Community College’s production of West Side Story.

Castiel looked off into the skyline, like an angel looking out onto a city skyline, which is what he was. He took a small locket out from his pocket, looking at it briefly.

“Dean, I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dirk Strider: Wow, that was a load of horseshit.  
> CC: D-Dirk Strider from Homestuck?! Is that you?  
> Dirk Strider: Tsk… Of course. I had to see how this clusterfuck unraveled myself. Really? Supernatural crossover fanfiction in 2020?  
> CC: OwO this is just such an honor sir! I’m so excited to meet you.  
> (Cas: Hey, I thought this was my story!?)  
> CC: Oh shush Cas, you’ll get your time! UwU  
> CC: Anyway, here was chapter one! Please like and subscribe! See you soon! XD Tags will be added when applicable UwU


	2. Chapter 2: Wayward Son

"And I stood upon the sand of the sea, and saw a beast rise up out of the sea,  
having seven heads and ten horns, and upon his horns ten crowns,  
and upon his heads the name of blasphemy.

_-Revelations (13:1)_

* * *

Chapter 2: Wayward Son

Vriska, seeing the light in the sky, flew up on her God Tier wings and found Hatsune Miku on a rooftop, who had also come.

“Something’s in the air… Feels like the 8eginning of an adventure,” said Vriska.

“Do you really think this is what’s good for you?” replied Miku, turning to face Vriska, instead cleaning her leek.

“Oh Miku, I’m sure you’ll be a8le to figure it out soon enough, 8ut this time? World is MINE :::;)”

Vriska flew off into the distance, ready to make her move…

…

The Onceler sat at his desk, sipping a brand-ambiguous beverage that I shall not name drop unless Nestle decides to wire me a $100,000 check in the next five seconds. No? Ok, moving on (figures the water capitalists can’t pay me for my heroic branding exploits). He waved his hand as his servant, some poor soul sold to One Direction back in 2013, began to play stupid horse by 100 gecs [sic] from a comically impractical-looking gramophone for the 22nd time that day. A Garfield-branded novelty landline telephone rang on his desk with its prerecorded “I hate Mondays” ring.

“Onceler enterprises, Onceler speaking. Yes… Yes… I’ll be right there.”

He rose from his desk, clapping his hands as his servant ran to get his gloves. With a satisfying snap, he had both on his hands and before passing through the door, stopped to say “Well, how bad can I possibly be?”

…

Castiel wandered the streets of Super Hell, lost in both mind and body. These streets were so unlike anything he had ever seen. They were at once too colorful yet familiarly washed, a chaotic mix of the known and the foreign. In his drab trench coat and suit, Castiel stuck out in his profound mundanity, especially compared to the freakish menagerie that walked the streets. He was so caught up in the Adult Swim overload around him that he failed at first to notice a voice that yelled at him as he passed.

“Hey! You there!”

Castiel looked around. He saw no one that seemed to be looking for him.

“Hey! You! Down here!”

He looked down to see a metal orb with a blue, swiveling mechanical eye that seemed to be pointed at him.

“Can you pick me up? I seem to have fallen again.”

Castiel looked around and, deciding that this may as well happen and couldn’t hurt, picked the sphere up in his arms.

“Aw, thanks for that, I really thought I was in a bind there. The name’s Wheatley,” said the robot, his eyes alight. This of course is a purely metaphorical light because Wheatley’s eye light was constantly on, a visual shorthand in robot fiction to simulate the idea of an open eye, useful for limited visual emoting since robots often lack the facial anatomy needed to actually blink. The usual, you know?

“They told me that I would die if I went to Super Hell! I mean I guess they might be right, but well, I’m here! There aren’t administrative rails here though, so I was in a right good pickle there with no legs,” continued Wheatley along his entirely unprompted word vomit.

Castiel, not seeing anyone better, (a real “the bar is so low it’s underground” situation if you ask me) decided to ask Wheatley, “Do you know where we are in Super Hell? I’m kind of looking for someone, or failing that, a way out of here.”

Wheatley, barely able to contain himself with excitement, began undulating like a cat does before throwing up. Castiel had to shift his weight to keep from dropping the robot and toppling alongside with him.

“You could say I’m something of a guide,” yelled Wheatley, with an authoritative nod, “Who are you looking for?”

“A man I know, Dean Winchester.”

“Right, right… He wouldn’t happen to be one of the **Princes of Super Hell**?”

The question puzzled Castiel. Not just because the answer was quite obviously no, but because the question itself seemed like a contrived narrative device used to frame a piece of heavy-handed exposition. It was as if the term “ **Prince of Super Hell** ” were highlighted in a second color, like the text in a video game framing a proper noun to make sure the reader is paying attention as opposed to just button-mashing through every text window.

“No, though I don’t think I know who these princes are,” replied Cas, fully aware of the expositional trap that he’s wandered ass-backwards into.

“Well, there’s four of them, and they run this whole place! There’s Sans, Onceler, Alastor, and Bill Cipher,” chirped Wheatley with a self-satisfied sense of accomplishment, “They’re kind of a big deal, mate!”

“You knew the answer then. You could have just said that you don’t know who Dean is.”

“Dean? Who’s that?”

“I- You know what never mind,” said Cas, beginning to put down Wheatley.

“Wait, wait, don’t put me down, I can help you find him!”

Castiel paused as Wheatley continued, “Once-ler Enterprises is just a few blocks from here, we could ask them about using their surveillance software to look for your friend!”

The implication of a pan-Super Hell network of corporate surveillance software chilled Castiel to the core. It was as predictable as it was perhaps even inevitable in a literal capitalist hellscape, but it didn’t make the realization any less unsettling. But, given that Castiel had no other leads (and I have no more to give him), he proceeded along with Wheatley towards God knows what bullshit comes next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dirk Strider: You’re still at this bullshit? How pathetic.  
> CC: UwU You’re just mad because I’m the one doing the more fun post-canon extension of a preexisting intellectual property/properties!!! >:3c  
> Dirk Strider: Say what you will about the Homestuck Epilogues and HS^2, but at least they have readership, unlike this pathetic ass display. Hell, I gave up a year’s worth of clout just to insert myself in this train wreck to make sure you know how embarrassing this is. I feel like fucking Santa Claus coming in with the shame coal up in this bitch.  
> CC: :(  
> (Cas: You’ll feel better soon! I’m sure more people will read soon!)  
> CC: Thank you, Cas. Anyway, there was Chapter 2! Big thanks 2 my friend Connor who’s tha BEST and helped me out with ideas and editing. Please like and subscribe or whatever the kids are doing these days (or put me as your #1 on MySpace xoxo)! XD


	3. Chapter 3: Make Life Take the Lemons Back!

“Does it require deep intuition to comprehend that man’s ideas, views and conceptions,  
in one word, man’s consciousness, changes with every change in the conditions  
of his material existence, in his social relations and in his social life?”

-The Communist Manifesto, Engels and Marx

* * *

Chapter 3: Make Life Take the Lemons Back!

Jake English was not a businessman. Well, he was literally at least. Owning and running a large corporation does, in fact, categorically ensure that one can be called a businessman. But you understood what I meant. Jake’s identification as businessman, or symbolic lack thereof, is a commentary not upon his categorical existence, which is taken as a given, but instead refers to the poor quality with which he conducts his economic enterprises. 

It was these poor practices that brought him before the underpaid and overworked receptionist at Once-ler Enterprises, the new owner of the now defunct Skaianet Inc, the company which had until very recently celebrated 30 years under the leadership of one Jake English. He stood at the desk, as he had for the last few days like clockwork, in search of some payment for the company that had been bought out from under him.

“Now I’m sure you’re a reasonable lass, which is why I’m asking you to be nice for a minute to a chap down on his luck!”

Not even looking up, the receptionist fired off the same unenthused response she had given before, “If you don’t have an appointment scheduled with the Once-ler, I’m afraid I can’t help you. He is a very busy captain of industry and doesn’t have time for… ‘chaps down on their luck.’” She said “chaps” with a barb of scorn, running her eyes along Jake’s getup, a tacky and garish set of God Tier pajamas suiting a Page of Hope complete with excessively tight underwear, no other pants to be spoken of, clean shaven legs, a too-tight hooded tunic and a dashing mustache. He looked something like a middle-aged man jammed into a teenager’s cosplay for a local anime convention which, all things considered, is not a comparison too factually dissimilar from the truth.

Castiel, with Wheatley in tow, stood on the sidewalk outside, marveling at the tacky and excessive edifice of perhaps the greatest temple ever erected to the free market, Once-ler Enterprises. Castiel opened his mouth slowly.

“Is this the-“

“Yeah.”

They shuffled up to the garish automatic doors and entered into the lobby, which looked like a Spirit Halloween couldn’t find any empty retail brick and mortar locations to set up in, save for the already occupied and fully operation TD Bank which would only rent out space on the condition that they could still be a bank while the Halloween people sold cheap wigs (to be bought up by people like the CW Costumes and Makeup department probably). Despite two banks of counters, only one receptionist was actually on-call, currently occupied by another customer. As polite robots and angels do, they queued up in line to wait for their turn.

The receptionist was waiting for this; she finally had an out.

“Sir, can we move this along, there’s another customer behind you.”

Castiel and Wheatley looked around the room, feigning unawareness despite the fact that they were the only two people in the room besides the receptionist and the other customer. They were also trying to keep from staring at the customer’s rather voluminous rear, held tight and high by what appeared to be his garish yellow underwear briefs. Castiel leaned over to Wheatley and whispered, “Isn’t it illegal for people to walk around in so little er…”

Wheatley attempted to match Castiel’s volume but instead shouted into the otherwise silent office, “No, not really, I mean if there were laws about nudity and stuff you could probably say that I was naked too, but I can’t wear clothes so that wouldn’t be fair in the slightest!”

Both Jake and the Receptionist stopped and turned to face the pair. The receptionist had had quite enough of this. Reaching for a button under her desk, she said, “This is all too much. I’m going to have to ask you to leave. All of you.”

As the button clicked, a comical series of springs and pulleys activated, bringing to life a security system as whimsical as it was complex. I’m not going to describe it in detail though, you’re just going to have to take my word for it because I can’t be bothered right now to talk it all through. Impressionistically, think Rube Goldberg and Dr. Suess got together for a wild night of amphetamine-fueled sex in a McDonalds bathroom in Berlin and decided to represent their encounter through the medium of corporate security system.

Castiel, Jake, and Wheatley all landed squarely on their asses, skidding across the sidewalk. Jake, being both a gentleman and completely unharmed by virtue of the amount of “protective padding” he had, got up first and offered his hand to Castiel.

“Sorry about that chap! The name’s Jake English! Let me help you up.”

Picking up Wheatley, Castiel staggered up and brushed himself off. Jake continued, saying, “Gosh darn, you all probably had some business in there that I kept you from! I wish I could make it up to you! I was just trying to get some of my stuff back from the Once-ler..”

Wheatley perked up and interjected, “Oh! You’re THAT Jake English! Disgraced ex-CEO of Skaianet Inc!”

“Well, yes… That’d be me. It’s been a real pickle! A big ol’ lemon of a punch from the cruel mistress of fate! If I had just a few files from my old office I might have a chance to get my life back on track…”

Wheatley seemed to undulate a bit and asked, “Would this office happen to have some surveillance data? We’re uh, looking for a friend. Yes. That’s it.”

“It sure better! Skaianet’s the leader in appearifyers, sendificators, and anything else you might need to run an autonomous corporate state built on the fundamental degradation of human/sentient being rights!”

Castiel motioned to an alley a few paces away and pulled into its entrance, beaconing Jake to follow. Huddled together, Castiel made his proposition.

“We both have stuff we want. Why don’t we head in there tonight and get you your stuff back? I’m sure Wheatley and I will find what we’re looking for along the way.”

Jake pondered for a moment. What they asked was incredibly illegal and somehow managed to surpass its unlawfulness in danger. Also, he barely knew these two strapping gentlemen! Random passers by (in a place called Super Hell no less) may not have the best of intentions for certain! That being said, it had a better chance of working than harassing the Once-ler’s secretaries for a fourth day in row. And what kind of a story would there be if he played it safe all the time? Not that he would ask himself that of course but, because of the narrative framing of the request and an absence of anything that might possibly constitute an alternate course of action, it is a relevant enough determining factor to warrant a mention.

“Shucks, I’ll do it!”

Jake stuck his hand out and shook Castiel’s as Wheatley, handless as he was, vaguely bobbed along as a sort of gestural pantomime to indicate his assent. Feeling left out nonetheless, he offered a few words of encouragement, or rather, words he would speak with the intention of inspiring encouragement, regardless of how they may inevitably be received by other agents in his environment.

“Then it’s settled! As they said back in Aperture, when life gives you lemons, make them take the lemons back! Make them rue the day they ever gave us lemons!”

“Well said!”

…

Skaianet stook out like a sore thumb, which was quite an accomplishment in the garish, kitschy expanse of the Super Hell Cosmopolitan Area. In fact, it was only able to accomplish this by merit of its own profound mundanity. As an otherwise unadorned green warehouse, it was isolated and alone among a sea of what looked like Deviantart Sonic OCs reimagined as buildings, like how clickbait websites will try and reinvent Disney Princesses as anything from goths to cement mixers (For the record, I am unafraid of the Rat’s little entertainment megalomonopoly on the entertainment industry; them copyright striking this work for a metaphor involving Disney Princesses and cement mixers would frankly be the funniest thing ever to happen to me).

Castiel, Jake, and Wheatley met behind a dumpster towards the back, where the offices were located. Despite their attempts to look subtle and inconspicuous, Wheatley’s eye glowed like an unpleasant strobe at a warehouse rave and illuminated Jake’s tight, tiny briefs like a vicious mirror signal from some castaways on a deserted island, desperate to be seen at any cost.

Fortunately, no one was near the facility, and ironically enough, Skaianet Inc couldn’t ever afford its own technology, leaving the entire campus unwatched and undefended. It was never robbed simply because people assumed that no one would be stupid enough to leave it unprotected. The Once-ler hadn’t even bothered to change the locks yet. Jake managed to get the door open with his own key.

The offices of Skaianet were painfully dull, in the same washed out green as the exterior. With Wheatley’s eye as a guide, Jake conducted the band through the labs attached to the offices. Castiel stood guard as Jake walked terminal to terminal ripping files, and table to table taking small mechanical bits and other assorted trinkets. It definitely wasn’t Castiel’s wheelhouse. When he was adventuring with the Winchesters, they always elected for more… direct methods of solving problems. There was always a certain point that the plot, the machinations of heaven and hell became too intricate to follow with a scientific mind. Wheatley would hate to admit it, but his old nemesis at Aperture had the right idea: the best solution to a problem is usually the easiest. Why bother studying theological metaphysics when a simple punch and a few well-timed kicks might suffice? These punches might need to be powered up by some godly force or something equally contrived, but at the end of the day, the metaphysics sorted themselves out and all they needed was a bit of chutzpah.

_Bang_

Jake moved from one of the computer terminals towards a bin of old parts. It looked to be an assemblage of various robot limbs. Were Wheatley able to see it, he probably would not be taken too aback by it. After all, detritus heaps of robot gore were essentially the carpeting of his good old home, Aperture Science. That being said, one might wonder what another robot mike think. Would they recognize the face of death in that pile? Would that face to be their own, reflected back on them in mirror of mortality? Would they wonder what lies beyond that pile? Would they hope that beyond the pile there lie pleasant dreams? Do robots even dream? Perhaps that’s a question they wouldn’t want to think about. Who’s to say which answer would be more terrifying. Not that Wheatley thought any of this at all. He was simply too stupid to, as was built into his programming. One might imagine that to be its own type of blessing.

Jake beckoned Castiel over. Castiel placed Wheatley on an adjacent table and Jake had him hold onto a few bits of robot, pieces Jake selected while rummaging through the pile. Piece by piece, Jake seemed to be preparing the components for a humanoid shell.

“You chaps have been real standup gentlemen to little old me! Some bona fide bros! I noticed you carrying Wheatley over there and got to figuring we might be able to get him set up in a rudimentary body! It’ll keep your hands free there,” said Jake, selecting the last few bits from the heap and preparing a sack to fit them all in.

_Bang_

Wheatley shouted with joy, swiveling to look at the parts. Jake pointed around to a few different components, talking about ways they might be combined into a new body while loading them into a sack. In the meantime, Castiel checked some of the files on the computer terminal. There were countless surveillance logs, more than he could sort through. One of interest though, was taken that afternoon. Only a few seconds, it depicted an unfathomable expanse opening in the sky of Super Hell, dropping one trench-coated figure into the street below before collapsing into a flash of sparks. His arrival. Presumably. Being real though, it probably was, or I wouldn’t be telling you. Unless it was a red herring. Which I guess it might be. You all are smart readers; I think you can work it out in time.

At any rate, Castiel went through alone, at least on this side of the gate. Knowing that much was better than nothing. A notification popped up indicating that the surveillance tapes and other documents Jake had downloading had finished. Castiel unplugged the external hard drive and handed it back to Jake, who stuffed it into what looked to be a hoodie pocket on his extraordinarily tight manboy tunic.

_Bang_

“Hey, Cas, do you know what that banging is?” asked Jake. Castiel seemed surprised.

“I figured it was just the sound of the equipment,” he replied.

“No, don’t be silly! No one leaves the machines running at night! That’s rather silly!”

**_Bang._ **

Wheatley yelled from behind them and skittered across the floor as the table he was on folded and bent with a hideous shriek of metal against metal. Atop the twisted wreckage stood a humanoid pile of metal and fur wrapped in a purple uniform, with eyes that gleamed with piercing fury and a stench of rotting flesh. The form began to rise with a sound of creaking metal and snapping springs. 

“Run!”

Jake was too gobsmacked to respond, so with one hand, Castiel grabbed his arm and with the other, scooped up Wheatley, sprinting into the adjoining hallway. Jake stammered turn directions for Castiel as they ran through the halls until they came to a door and slammed it behind them.

With Wheatley’s eye as a light, Jake hobbled over to a computer terminal and turned it on. Three vent security doors around the room each closed and opened again, seemingly part of a sort of diagnostic test cycle. Next to the terminal, a few monitors flared to life with black and white security footage from around the facility. Jake pressed a button and sat in a chair behind him.

“At least the vents still work! And it seems like the power supply will keep until morning.”

“Excuse me, until morning?”

“Yes! I mean power doesn’t grow on trees chap! Sometimes you have to make cuts!”

Castiel was taken aback. Sitting here? In this pit? Until morning? With a potentially homicidal maniac outside? That sounds exactly like the kind of stupid, contrived situation someone might make up for a story for the sake of creating drama. Why couldn’t they have just gone outside? There’s probably a reason with regard to lore (which we’ll get to in a moment) but from a metatextual perspective, why this? For additional word padding? To include a ham-handed extended reference to Five Nights at Freddy’s? To retroactively justify 6 hours of research about the media franchise Five Nights at Freddy’s? Those are some awesome questions that Castiel definitely wasn’t thinking about. Someone is though, and someone might even know the answers to those questions! Probably not you though. Sorry.

Wheatley, heretofore too shellshocked to respond, interjected, saying, “Hiding sounds pretty good. That’s Purple Guy out there. Bad news. Really, bad news.”

Castiel gave him a confused, vacant face, an example of cultural shorthand used to express a lack of understanding, much like robot light-eyes as cultural shorthand for the idea of “openness” (Y’all are gonna be media experts by the end I swear). Wheatley darted his light-eye from vent to vent, speaking in a hushed whisper shout. 

“Purple Guy. Springtrap. Afton. He has a lot of names, but no matter which one you know, he’s a renowned killer-gone-security-for-hire. Big weakness is that he’s inactive come sunrise. Our best shot is to wait him out here.”

“And he’s a right acrobat. We have to watch these cameras to make sure he doesn’t break in through the vents. Another specialty of his.”

Looking again at the vents, Castiel was surprised to see them all uncovered and wide enough to comfortably fit something larger than a human being.

“Did you say we can block these?”

“Yes, but they won’t stay closed for more than a few seconds and we only have so much power to close them until morning.”

“Of course.”

Castiel backed into a wall and slid down to a seated position. Jake watched the screens intently, and quietly, clicking a vent shut every minute or so. For a life or death situation, it was actually more boring than anything else (how’s that for a tonal shift?). After an hour or so, Castiel decided small-talk induced embarrassment was superior to expectant silence.

“I feel like I’m going to spend the rest of eternity in a bunker.”

Jake and Wheatley lacked knowledge of Supernatural episode 15x18 and so had little to say. Yes. The three of them will have spent 6 hours in a bunker together by sunrise. No need to remind them of that excruciating fact.

Ok. So the first one didn’t land. No biggie. There’s an easy solution: just go for another blatant attempt at a conversation.

“Have either of you fallen in love before?”

Wheatley was quick to respond.

“Nope! They told me that I would die if I fell in love!”

“I wish they had told me that too.”

Jake did not answer. He clearly heard the question; his face was always particularly expressive. Jake English was not one to ever fool anyone, at least not by his deliberate choice.

**_Bang_ **

His lapse in attention proved mistimed. Springtrap began to rush from one of the vents. Jake slammed the vent control, bringing the door onto his torso as he hissed and thrashed. A seep of purple-brown fluid leaked from his torso, filling the room with the aroma of death. Castiel sprang to his feet and scooped up Wheatley. Jake grabbed his sack of parts as put all the generator’s remaining power into the vent. Castiel grabbed his hand and they sprinted from the room. Behind them, they could the sounds of metal ripping and tearing, with an unearthly howl. They did not look back. Castiel remembered the tales of Orpheus and Lot. Classic beginner’s mistake, looking back during a chase scene.

The trio burst through the door they came in through and sprinted off into the Super Hell sunrise. Where to? With any luck, into Chapter 4.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CC: Whew! That was a lot ^_^ With finals and stuff I’ve been awfully busy… :’(  
> Dirk Strider: Oh my god. Vriska I get, but Jake? Really? Did you need to make this any more pathetic? It’s not even worth dunking on you anymore.  
> CC: You’re just nervous that Jake might get a character arc about his own autonomy OwO  
> (Cas: Don’t hate us cuz u ain’t us!)  
> CC: Well said!  
> CC: Anyway, thx 4eva y’all!! Especially big thanks 2 my man Connor 4 being a real cool dood about this! Please like subscribe and anything else u lovely people do! Have an upsmexy day!!! XDXDXD


End file.
